


New Car Smell

by Andixa



Series: Collected Sherlock drabbles and headcanon [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Feels, Gen, Post-Episode: The Abominable Bride
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-03
Updated: 2016-05-03
Packaged: 2018-06-06 05:46:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 423
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6740980
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Andixa/pseuds/Andixa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>His brother's private car was exactly nothing at all like a small airplane.</p>
            </blockquote>





	New Car Smell

His brother's private car was exactly nothing at all like a small airplane. 

Sherlock closed his eyes, feeling the absence of engine vibrations. The car’s seats were squashy and leather, and the plastic odor commonly called new car smell was a surprisingly welcome replacement for ozone and mildew and lingering sick. He was in London, once again about to confront Moriarty, who has been dead for three years now, or perhaps not, but no, definitely dead. He was in London, he was Sherlock Holmes; he was, in fact, not off on an anonymous suicide mission in eastern Europe. He was in London, in one of Mycroft’s hateful cars, high on everything he could get his hands on -- looking ghastly, if his brother’s reaction was anything to go by. 

He quite liked being Sherlock Holmes. It’s just that Sherlock Holmes has become a complicated person to be recently, and part of him reasoned that it would be much simpler to simply… stop.

Fresh, unrecycled air rushed in, and Mycroft’s weight settled next to him. 

"Another minute, My. It's not every day one is granted reprieve from one's unofficial death sentence, after all."

A small intake of breath -- ah. He's said the wrong thing; or rather, said it to the wrong person.

"John." 

John’s silence, as always, spoke volumes.

“You weren’t supposed to hear that.” 

“Hear what? Hear that you have a nickname for your brother like an actual human being, or hear that you were leaving on a suicide mission without telling us?”

Sherlock blinked a few times, but it was probably best not to see John. Maybe, suggested a childish part of his mind, if I ignore this conversation, it won’t happen. 

“Were you ever going to tell me? Or just-- just one day, Mycroft rings me up, and oh, there’s been an accident, a miscalculation. And you’re just-- dead, again. For real, this time, except it was real for two years, Sherlock. It was real for me. You were dead. What am I going to do if you’re dead again?”

“You weren’t to know.” 

“Weren’t to-- oh bloody fucking hell, Sherlock. There wasn’t going to be any phone call. You were going to fly off into the sunset, let me think you’re off globe-trotting without me, while you’re lying dead in some Yugoslavian prison. Christ, I can’t even-- I can’t believe you--”

He glanced quite accidentally to John’s face, and flinched, and that seemed to take the wind out of the other man.

“Serbia, actually. I seem to have made some enemies.”


End file.
